Mewling Revolutionaries
by Almost an Actress
Summary: (Written with FluffyWerewolves) What if our favorite miserable characters were born with whiskers and tails instead of red flags or wine bottles? What if, in this AU world, they got into all kinds of unrelated, idiotic misadventures? What will become of the lovely cats?
1. The Tail of a Revolution

**Well, hello my miserable friends! This chapter was written by Sapphire from the FluffyWerewolves team, one of my favorite British mizzies. She's an amazing writer, so leave her some nice reviews. Next chapter will be written by me, Georgie.**

**XXX**

It truly was a shame, Grantaire found himself unable to assess the situation in any other light.

Enjolras was a wondrous being, a strikingly handsome lion of a cat. Slim in figure, planed flanks concealed beneath oceans of marmalade fur, glimmering, and sun-catching, silky soft in appearance. 'Fluffy' would be an insult to his stature, chiseled muscles visible beneath waves of short cushy pelt, the strength residing within his claws and bite undeniable. Acute shoulders and svelte hindquarters sloping downwards into delicate mitts, each cushioned by a pinkish pad, a veiled switchblade buried within each ink-stained paw. His thighs and appendages were ruptured open in vast stripes of carroty ginger. The plush fluff was thickest at the graceful curve of the revolutionary's neck, forming a ruffled, dense collar, melting down over his spine into tiger-like spotted bands and hide splattered in crimson toner, coming to a point just before his belly. Flecks of white fluff lined his chin, pronouncing the jut and curve of his muzzle, harbouring arched fangs and a quaint flush nose. Perched high upon his cranium lay two perfectly formed triangular ears, notoriously pricked, a constant state of alert. Each ear was tipped thin line of milky white; the same shade edged the thick fur on his cheeks. Glowing orbs of brilliant blue resided within his sockets, punctuated by diamond-shaped pupils, shriveling in the light, trailing downwards in golden tears.

Every feature of Enjolras' feline being was beautiful, flickering adoration and sparks of love into the isolated heart of Grantaire, but it was possibly his tail to which concentrated interest was drawn. The revolutionary's tail could be easily mistaken for that of a fox or a lemur, puffy and full in proportion, comparatively elongated. The clean bands dissolving down his velvety coat oozed into an orange tip. The drunken rival revered Enjolras' appendage, the gentle swish, the coiled motion as he perched upon his paws. Grantaire even found himself somewhat jealous, not that he was proud to admit such a fact, despite his generalised lack of dignity.

Grantaire was jet-black in colour, his rugged hide a shock of coal-shaded fleece, dark as soot. In contrast to Enjolras, the cynical mongrel's fur was dense, a coat similar to that of a winter-dwelling feline, but despite his rough his appearance, silky. Grantaire was stockily built, heavy-set in his paws, tough shoulders to jutting forelegs coiled in unused muscle, secreted by unkempt pelt, paws over-sized, blunt claws protuberant from broadened toes. Around his neck slung a clumsily tied necktie, jade-green and frayed. His head reflected his protected nature, muzzle turned upwards at the nose, torn and nicked ears slid sideways in annoyance or lazy disinterest. All knew the contents of his jowls, often displayed during a meeting of the cobbled together group, a wide yawn boasting teeth and tongue, sharp and sandpaper-like respectively, in an open and unbothered fashion. Grantaire's whiskers were mostly broken, few curling to their full length. It was rare to glance upon his optics, either dropped in heavy sleep or turned to the apparently fascinating floor. But in a rare fleeting glimpse, the long cast gaze to Enjolras, or the longing but disgusted look concerning his next bottle of lactose-removed milk. Bottomless, unfathomable pools of immersing bottle-green, glossed and twinkling in the poor lighting of the Cafe. If tails are to be compared and contrasted between the cats, Grantaire's appendage was miserably average, if inflated in a constant state of hostility. His tail served little purpose - more of Bahorel's preferred target of punishment if the moggie was too loud of an evening - even Mother Nature herself could not fix the drunken clumsiness of Grantaire, though he did use it occasionally to swish irritably at people, as a type of warning when he was irked.

It was upon such an evening that the unfortunate tragedy ensued, just another stuffy night cramped into the back room of the Musain, warm, furred bodies crammed together in a sardine-like fashion, tails surfing over dimming candle-flames, paws finding residence over another's. Enjolras appeared particularly spurred upon this day, whereas his passionate nature could never be rivaled, he was practically pouncing upon each of the Amis, singing of freedom and chanting of war, calling for muskets and pianos alike, even knocking over Combeferre's favoured ink pots in one instance of provoked animation, of which the philosophical cat was not best pleased. The spotted cat was infamous for his overwhelming, enthusiastic attitude, but it was clear that such misadventures had begun to wear out his fellows. Grantaire had discovered himself to be lying beside Courfeyrac, flanks touching, whickers gently brushing, not that the pair were complaining. It was only when the crowd began to dissipate, leaving few but the most enthusiastic of the group (and Grantaire) behind, that the trouble really began to brew, Enjolras' inner demon taking clear dominion over his reasoning.

"We will erect it upon the cobble! Before the doorway of the Musain! Join me brother!" yowled the ginger tom in delight, mitts placed before Combeferre in a bow, blocking the larger cat's exit. Enjolras had fallen to his front paws, tail twitching, eyes wide with excitement. The moth-catcher observed his companion's electrified shape, before cautiously shaking his head, careful of the map clenched between his canines. Combeferre flicked his ear in the general direction of Courfeyrac, who doggedly dragged himself to his paws, removing Grantaire's snug, warm pillow, leaving the black moggie cold once more. Enjolras studied the action, his gaze fixating upon the fluffy form of the cynical cat, who had coiled into a more rigid ball, tucking his tail over his snout, ears flattened against his cranium. He bounded towards Grantaire, bumping his muzzle against his shoulder in an attempt to rouse the lazing cat while his fellows made a muffled escape. Grantaire stirred, but did not fully wake, forcing open a questioning optic to regard his idol, sleep and exhaustion riddled throughout his dulled mind. Enjolras tenderly prodded his thick hide again, a slight whimpering plea slipping from his tongue.

"Be off with you," snarled Grantaire, flapping his ear, knocking the whiskers of Enjolras, causing him to start, "I wish to sleep." Enjolras stood over the cynical cat for a short while, before, in an act of theatrical annoyance striding to the opposing wall, huffing slightly. Grantaire watched him leave, admiring the curve and strut of his legs, before reliving his eyelid and slipping back into sleep. Enjolras, meanwhile, had stationed himself beside a chair, raised upon his hind limbs, gently placing a mitt open the seat, preparing to lift his light body upwards.

That was when it happened, a sudden change of events, fate rising from a dormant state to deliver its bite. There was a deafening crash, the clattering roar of wood striking tile, the surprised wail of a cat swallowed by the louder of the echoes. Grantaire's eyes flashed open, head snapping up, ears pricked, fully facing the location of the ruckus, only for the sight to bring laughter to his throat and a smirk to his lips.

The chair had fallen, unbalanced by the sudden weight of an ecstatic Enjolras, and now lay sideways, frame pressed to the floor. Enjolras himself, the source of the surprised yelp, rested close to the furniture, limbs splayed out awkwardly, having landed on his belly. The revolutionary made a move to stir, raising his heavy head and shivering slightly, blinking in innocent shock. He attempted standing, dragging in gangly legs to his body, gaining his paws. He succeeded in elevating to knee-height, before thundering back towards the tiles. Enjolras rose again, instead plumping to sit, decidedly washing his paws in a faked unconcerned fashion, a cat's surefire way to avoid embarrassment or loss of dignity. Grantaire gained his feet, staggering towards the upturned chair with a curious yet humorous expression, determined to discover the cause of Enjolras' newfound clumsiness. He circled around the tom, still engrossed in his fruitless endeavour, only to reach a shocking, horrific conclusion.

It could only be described as a shame.

The chair had fallen, atop Enjolras, yet part of the cat remained trapped beneath the wooden beams. His tail, the glorious appendage of which Grantaire adored and admired, was lodged beneath frame and floor, crushed under the chair's substantial weight, rings of marmalade and bronze disappearing beneath. The scenario apparently pained Enjolras on a more physical level, for the ensnared cat winced and lowered his over-clean mitt when Grantaire poked at his caught tail. The simple sound, a low whine of distress, clutched at his heart like an iron hand, tugging at the delicate strings.

"Trapped, dear leader?" he managed, relying upon his exerted sarcastic nature to cover the slight waver in his voice. Enjolras growled, the angered sound reverberating from within, his overexcited nature having obviously fled. Grantaire pawed once again at his tail, assessing the depth of his trouble. Enjolras, in an reaction to such contact, increased the volume of his snarl, hackles gently rising as jagged spikes along the neat curved of his spine, throwing an angry look over his shoulder, a warning for the larger cat to back off, to no avail. "May I?" enquired Grantaire, gently leaning closer to the revolutionary's tail. Enjolras did not reply, staring intently at the floor with sudden rage and disappointment to his lack of ability to move. The black cat took his chance, gently taking his tail into his mouth, closing gums around the puffy fur as a mother would hold her kitten. Enjolras did not stir from the action, but even Grantaire noticed the slight tensed movement of his forelimbs. Another pang of guilt struck his weakened core, eyes slipping shut. Averting his clouded thoughts, the cynical cat jerked at his tail, struggling to dislodge the glorious feature. He continued with this movement, each yank or pull increasing in power until, abruptly, a shuddering gasp emitted from Enjolras. He paused instantaneously, removing his jaws, starring with worried eyes onto the form of Enjolras, moving to his side in muffled steps.

To put it simply, Enjolras lay in deep hatred, ashamed and humiliated at the current situation. He was the leader of the revolution, a paladin of France, a warrior, battling for his Patria, yet, in the most plaintive of mistakes, a fool's error, he had come to be captured by a piece of solitary furniture. He had allowed himself to be overtaken by the ecstasy and exhilaration of the moment, a shocking burst of the thrilling thought of building his long-awaited barricade. He had leapt, and fallen. A thundering shock of realisation, a metaphorical bucket of icy water. And now he was situated beside the treacherous chair, tail trapped awkwardly beneath it, small jolts of pain causing him to involuntary whimper or cringe. And who stood by him? Not sympathetic Combeferre nor the burly Bahorel, capable of hoisting a table onto his back, Grantaire, a cynical burden to the demonstration, never to be utilised.

Yet, in objection to his unchangeable opinion, here the cat remained, both in fur and flesh, sober and awake. Bright eyes glaring with a diligent light, assessing the problem with a wise expression. He had attempted to free his leader, and stopped when the ache became unbearable. He was almost compassionate, aiding Enjolras in this manner, the golden cat-

Enjolras felt a sudden warm sensation running along his flank, a terribly coarse texture scraping and smoothing his slicked pelt, his rapid mind comparing the perception to that of Joly's tightly bound cloth bandages, scratchy and calloused. Beside him, forced against his shoulder, Grantaire's muzzle was pushed into the plush fur of his coat, rough tongue trailing over each stripe with unknown accuracy. A low purr had evolved from within the dark tom, a reverberating single-noted tune, a noise of pleasure.

"Why are you..?"

"Hush, your fur is full of dust. Courfeyrac will be here to collect me soon, he can help."

"Collect you?" probed Enjolras, beginning to enjoy the wash. Grantaire halted, retreating slightly, tongue protruding from curved fangs.

"Oh? I guess you forget; you may remain until the moon is high, but I am the one to drink myself to sleep. Courfeyrac commonly finds me in the early hours, drags me home. I am not surprised, many do not remember much about one such as I. Even your fellows me see as nothing more than the obnoxious drunk."

"You are loyal; an admirable quality," the revolutionary cat muttered, triggering a slight meow to emit from Grantaire. Enjolras twisted his neck to acknowledge the source of such a sound, coming snout to snout with the sooty cat.

"Loyal?"

"You are still here, despite my ridiculous behaviour." Grantaire dragged his tongue across the golden tom's pink nose, a comforting lick.

"Do not speak of such nonsense," he muttered in a tender tone, nuzzling into the ruff of Enjolras' neck. A pleasant moment of silence followed, concluded by a muffled grunt of discomfort from the revolutionary.

"It hurts dreadfully..." he mewled helplessly, ears sliding sideways in irritation. Grantaire buried his muzzle within his dense pelt, huffing with joy and sympathy, still unbelieving of the situation he had found himself to be in.

"I know." the drunkard reassured, swishing his tail over the base of Enjolras' trapped appendage.

"No, my paw, you are standing on it."

"Ah." Grantaire sniffed, removing his misplaced mitt, claws clattering against the tiles as he readjusted his limbs. "Better?"

"Are you not still here?"

Grantaire yelped with sudden glee, thrusting himself against Enjolras, engulfing his snout into his leader's broad chest with a furious purr.


	2. A Heart Full of Love and Sorrow

**Bonjour, my miserable(s) friends! Okay, I am so sorry for not updating this story. My muse ran off to Paris without me. But she's back for the time being. So, I'm sorry for the unhappy ending. This chapter was written by me, Georgie.**

**XXX**

The two cats dashed down the cobbled street under cover of darkness, as opposite as the sun and the moon. The "sun," as it were, had grown up a privileged kit, with money practically flowing through the claws of his family. Though he had wanted for nothing through his childhood, he was on terrible terms with his family after a falling out that no one talked about. Despite his lack of familial support, he was happy with his life. He had a large, colorful group of friends that were more of a family than he had ever known. He was poor, but enjoyed being able to honestly make his own money and decide what to do with it. And, of course, he had the love of his life. That also helped.

The "moon" was _not_ happy about this. She, a waif of thing, had been in love with the cat next to her for year after unhappy year, though he was oblivious. She had been well off once, when she was a kit, but then her family's business had been shut down and she'd lived in the streets and ugly tenements for the rest of her life. Her father was cruel and quick with his claws, often punishing his daughters if he felt they weren't up to snuff. She was constantly cold and hungry with dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep and caring for her siblings. Her life was cold and dark, but she was resigned to it.

Marius jumped up on a street lamp, curling himself around it. "In my life, she has burst like the music of angels!" he cried happily, grappling for purchase on the lamp. He raked his claws down it, producing an ear-splitting shriek that didn't seem to bother the tom.

"Music of angels indeed, Monsieur Marius," Eponine chuckled. She was a mangy young thing with a garish orange pelt marred by scratches. Her ribs strained at her skin, and a tuft of lighter orange fur grew on her forehead, under which milky blue eyes were housed. The poor girl – really not much older than a kit – was terribly ugly and had a voice to match.

Marius, on the other hand, was one of the handsomest toms in France. He had a smooth black pelt with not a single spot to disrupt the silky pattern. The only irregularity was that his head was completely cinnamon-hued, with dark freckle-like spots all over it. He had cheerful golden eyes. "Indeed," he echoed dreamily. He turned to Eponine and took her paws in his own. "Without you, none of this would have happened, 'Ponine. I owe my life's happiness to you. Oh, God. How could I ever repay you? If there's anything…anything at all that you ever want or need, please do not hesitate to ask me," the tom insisted.

"That's all very kind of you, Monsieur," Eponine said quietly. "We'd best get to your girl now, yes?" _There is only one thing I want of you, Marius_, she thought, _but I would never dare ask it._

The two padded along the cobbled street for a few minutes more, Eponine leading Marius to happiness, all the while trudging farther and farther away from her _own_ happiness.

"Oh, do hurry up!" Marius said happily. At Eponine's wan smile, he gifted her with her own beaming countenance. Finally, the two of the arrived at a large iron fence.

Eponine melted into the shadows, seemingly forgotten. She watched as Marius approached the fence, lifting a paw and slowly resting it on one of the metal curls. He rose up on his back legs and called into the moonlit garden: "_Bonjour? Mademoiselle, vous êtes là?_"

A voice soft as velvet answered: "_Oui_? Who is it?" A pure white she-cat with a docked tail slowly approached Marius. She had radiant blue eyes and three pink heart-shaped marks on her face – one on her forehead, and one on each cheek. On any other she-cat, this would have made her look like a babied kit. On Cosette, though, it made her look innocent and sweet.

_ Of course it does. I expected no less_, Eponine thought sourly from the darkness. She attempted to curl for warmth, her prominent ribs making any position mildly uncomfortable. Finally, she brushed the tuft of orange fur out of her eyes and resigned herself to curling up in a pitiful ball.

Cosette put a paw on the fence and she, too, rose on her back legs. "Monsieur!" she breathed. "You came for me."

Marius nodded vigorously. "How could I not, fair mademoiselle? Please, do tell me your name."

"Cosette," the she-cat whispered.

"Marius Pontmercy," Marius returned, placing his paw atop Cosette's. At her mild surprise, he flicked his ears back. "Is this okay?"

"More than," Cosette smiled. "Much more."

Marius flushed, his fur turning a pleasing shade of red from where Eponine was. It made his freckle-like spots stand out even more. "Thank you. Mademoiselle, may I say that you are the most beautiful cat I've ever laid eyes on?"

Cosette flushed as well. "Thank you, Monsieur. I…I don't know what to say."

"Do come out from the fence," Marius urged.

Cosette eyed the metal curls. "I…I cannot. Papa would be shocked to find out I am doing even this. I couldn't dishonor him. Besides," she added, "the gate is loud. I would wake the poor man from his well-deserved slumber."

Marius smiled gently. "Your honor is becoming of you. Do as you wish."

"But I _do_ wish to see you," Cosette stressed. "Without all of this pesky iron in the way." She paused for a moment, thinking and tapped a metal flourish with her paw. "I will see you," she decided. "I will need your help to move the gate, but we will do so quietly."

Marius nodded like a puppy and moved to help the girl. With Cosette pushing the gate and Marius pulling it, it came open almost soundlessly. Cosette shyly exited her garden.

_Enfer_, Eponine thought with equal levels shock and bitterness, _the girl even _walks _demurely! _It was true: the white cat padded on quiet paws with her head pointed downward as she approached Marius.

She two stood in front of each other, both blissfully happy and completely unsure of what to do with themselves. Finally, Marius raised a black paw and stroked Cosette's cheek, his claws lightly catching on the pink strands that made up the heart-shaped mark. Cosette leaned into his touch. "Sir," she asked softly, his paw still on her cheek, "may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Marius breathed, "come, ask anything of me."

"Do…do you – I mean…are you – would you…ah –? Oh, this is so hard to ask!" the she-cat cursed. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked Marius right in the eyes.

Eponine could see the sparks flying from his beautiful golden eyes into her beautiful blue ones. _Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_, Eponine thought angrily, _they're both so beautiful, and her I am, the ugly urchin! The poor waif! The disgusting gamin! The forgotten street rat! _

"Do you love me?" Cosette whispered.

"Yes," Marius whispered back. "More than anything. God could take away every single cat in this world and leave you and I, and I would be happy for entirety of my existence."

Tears began to form in Cosette's eyes. "I love you too."

"Marry me!" Marius decided. "If you love me, _mon chérie_, become Madame Cosette Pontmercy."

"I will!" Cosette answered. "Oh, you are to be my _mari_!"

"Cosette, we shall be married before the week is out!" Marius rejoiced.

"Oh, Papa will be ever so happy for me," Cosette sighed dreamily. "We will invite those we love, and it will be lovely."

Marius suddenly seemed to remember something. "Cosette, my good friend Eponine led me to you. She will be so happy to know of our engagement!" He looked around for Eponine, finding her curled up in that piteous ball. "Oh, Eponine, do come to us!" he said happily.

Eponine pulled herself and with leaden paws walked toward the two. "I am so…happy," she forced out. "Congratulations. There is…something I must attend to now." With that, she turned on her heel and padded away.

The dark waters of the Seine looked quite inviting about now.


	3. Winged Crustaceans

**Hello, my (admittedly few) kitty fans! So, this chapter was written by my lovely Sapphire, the masterful Brit! And for some reason I feel the need to point out that she's British. Heh. Okay, moving on. Enjoy!**

**Yours,**

**-Novi alias Georgie**

**XXX**

Combeferre crouched, a warm evening breeze ruffling his shaggy grey fur, ears tilted back, immensely fluffy tail curved and brushing the ground in careful sweeps, lips parted in a slight snarl. His belly was close to touching the dirt, legs bent, brimming with elastic energy, a coiled spring. Black nose and whiskered muzzle, bridged by spectacle-like, glowing wide greenish amber eyes, focused upon a singular, fluttering target.

It was a cool as a city park could be; broad ashes and climbing vines shaded the undergrowth with flickering, liquid shadows, sunbeams striking the earth in varied rays. Tufts of leaves shook and shivered, ornate mauve flowers bursting forth in songs of colour, rooted in swirling lines and circles, fencing gravel paths, unruly ferns and wild grasses sprouted at roots of the grand trees. Roses and ivy coiled about each other, battling, waging a war of thorn and creeper, scrambling for the sunlight. Urban-birds sang, insects swarmed amongst roots, peacock-patterned wings fluttering, entwined with dustier and more sombre tones. Disguised within such blackened shrubs slinked a largish grey feline, thick-furred and expeditiously-minded.

The philosophical cat was of the Maine coon variety, his rich pelt feathery and supple, coloured with a light ash-like grey which ran in gradient to his somewhat fluffier white belly, coat and mane outlined by ruffs of beige fur. His sooty forelegs faded to lighter mitts, lined with little stripes of dull grey, strong back legs giving way to stockings. His paws were proportionately large, snow-boots for winter and padded gloves for medical examination, in addition to the commonly given hug. His claws remained hidden, barely used, enveloped within tender dark pads. Much of his actual framework was hidden by the tufts of fur and ruffled hair had cloaked his flanks, erupting from his jowls in a mane, making him appear to be somewhat plump.

Combeferre's elongated form could not be described as skeletal, soft in both appearance and personality, comforting and cuddly. His eyes were warm, brimming with kindness and genuine concern, tongue expert at grooming, sweet mewl and soothing purr coupled with his snow leopard-like tail (a variable blanket) rendered him to be extremely consoling. Earnest yet firm nature making him to appear as a mother-cat, taking a loving position over the excitable personals of the Amis. The feline's short muzzle was adorned with charmingly curled whiskers, a reddish nose and black lips, concealing tongue and fangs. His wide ears, placed either side of the black dorsal stripe that ran the length of his spine, were tipped with tufts of fur, similar to that of a lynx.

Combeferre was the guide of the revolution, doctor, lepidopterologist, philosopher, favouring his bark to his bite. He stood by the earthbound justice of the rebellion, while his ginger-furred accomplice remained with his whiskers in the clouds.

It was upon this evening that Combeferre found himself hunting new prey, a quaint moth, fluttering from rock to rock in the aforementioned park. The creature's delicate wings came to a close as it landed upon another lush fern, short mottled fur illuminated by the dying sun, turning to white if viewed from below. Smears of lichen-imitating pigment lined such appendages, dark and tinged with fruit-red, the perfected heather-based camouflage. Both the moth's body and legs were shrouded in fur, alien antenna curling in a sophisticated 's' consisting of the individual branches indigenous of the heterocera family. The cat's body coiled, shivering and quaking with excitement, ears plastered to cranium, hackles raised and eyes widened, pupils constricting to a slit.

In a sudden rush, a burst of explosive noise and the air-rattling shriek of claws Combeferre pounced, throwing himself towards the moth. The creature fell, spiraling into the soil, a second pawn coming to bat upon its furry body. Surprised at his own attack, the feline stepped back, paw coming to chest as he observed the creature attempt to right itself, wings fluttering wildly, flapping and scrabbling to regain posture. In another adrenaline-fuelled rush, Combeferre crossed to the other side of the lepidoptite, bashing it once more, stilling its spasming wings. Both surprised ecstatic at his catch, so in truest feline nature, he leant down to sniff at the grounded insect. It twitched feebly, tail perking and antenna shivering. Combeferre came to rest kneeling beside the moth, head snapping about to pick out witnesses and upon finding none, gently taking the creature into his mouth, teeth clear of fragile wings. He rose, prey in jaws, sneaking off as a shadow throughout the shrubs, soft paws muffling his foot-falls.

Combeferre's personal could be described as reserved, content to remain isolated from the rest of the rowdy group, whereas always gathering the needed attention when required. Although on this night, the philosopher had all but slunk into the room, hurrying to the back corner. There he appeared to hunch, broad back and snaking-tail facing the Amis, a nearby candle casting a fearsome shadow about the wall. Courfeyrac, the ever curious tortoiseshell, observed such actions from his place among the heated bodies of his friends, taking note of each flick of Combeferre's ample ears and how his muzzle slanted as though watching something by his paws. Stereotypical inquisitiveness enveloped his being as he untangled himself from the crowded table, approaching the reclusive feline with stooped shoulders, a passive stance if any. He sat beside the tom, gently nuzzling his shoulder in a greeting, inducing little response from the larger cat. "Evening." Courfeyrac purred, bright green eyes burning with emerald fire, "And, who may I ask," he leaned down up noticing the forlorn moth at Combeferre's paws, "is this?". He prodded the shuddering insect with his nose, tiny legs batting at his whiskers, amusing the handsome tom to a great extent.

"A lobster moth," replied Combeferre, addressing the dandy with a teacher-like tone, "Stauropus fagi."

"Which means..?" inquired Courfeyrac, the guide peered at him with a slightly confused gaze.

"Stauropus is a sub-species of moth and fagi is the Latin word for-"

"Agh, nevermind, I thought you might have made a joke in one of your many tongues. My apologies."

Combeferre tapped the twitching creature's wings with a scale-dust coated claw, earnest eyes brimming with wonder, soft flanks pressed to the slender body of Courfeyrac. "Fascinating creatures, so called by the almost crustacean-like shape of their larvae, segmented bodies, red shells, the similarity edges on uncanny. They imitate the nature of a spider and devour their own eggs. Look at those legs! Caudal appendages such as these are rarely found on-"

The interest of Courfeyrac was drifting, carried back to the image of his friends huddled about a small table playing cards and dominoes alike, indulging within tales of mistresses and wine, trading barbs and nectar, uniting in old french shanties. Combeferre's voice slurred into a drone within his ears, such talk sounding both alien and undecipherable to the dandy.

"Oh how I would love to keep such a creature, have you seen my jars? I appear to have lost them."

Courfeyrac was snapped back into the present, finding the eyes of Combeferre pointed fixedly towards the escaping moth, who had begun to crawl towards the nearby candle-dish, enamoured by the dancing flame, dragging limp wings beside weak body, antenna dropping across thorax.

"Pardon?"

"My jars." retorted the grey-furred cat, "Have you seen them lying about?"

Courfeyrac hesitated in a guilt-ridden rush of memory, both he and Grantaire had spent evenings using such jars, labelled for moths, to catch and horde flies or sugar-loving wasps. Or how they had used his scattered medical possessions as substitutes for bronze ashtrays. "No," he managed, suppressing a flustering tone, "I haven't, apologies."

"Shame, although, this species does remain around these parts for most of the seasons. How I miss the season of the Silver Ys!" Combeferre lamented, "Such beautiful creatures!"

"Indeed, I-"

"The ridges, the underwings! And such colours! Don't you think?"

Courfeyrac had occupied his mouth with a wide yawn, revealing whitish fangs and a pink tongue, eyes squeezed shut. His jowls snapped shut, addressing Combeferre with a questioning gaze, ears perked forward.

"I'm boring you, am I not?"

"No, no, not boring..."

Combeferre sighed, "Go back to your table." Courfeyrac responded with a courteous bow and a cheeky smile.

"My most gracious of thanks!" he called, turning tail and fleeing, "Good luck with your moth, mon ami!"


End file.
